


Voltage Running Through Her Skin

by chezamanda



Category: Ghostbusters (2016)
Genre: Books, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Smut, F/F, Ghosts, Librarians, Libraries, Queer Character, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-14
Updated: 2016-11-08
Packaged: 2018-08-22 09:57:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8281759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chezamanda/pseuds/chezamanda
Summary: Your first week in the Rare Book Division should have gone smoothly... Coming across a haunted book was decidedly not something that you had anticipated.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [akitron](https://archiveofourown.org/users/akitron/gifts).



> Explicit part is in a later chapter. The rest is more Teen/PG-13. 
> 
> Title from MGMT's "Electric Feel."

Your first week in the Rare Book Division should have gone smoothly; maybe a few forgetful moments or not knowing where things were, trying to remember everyone’s names, the usual. Coming across a haunted book was decidedly _not_ something that you had anticipated. 

Your graduate studies had focused on archival and rare books, but it took a few years of working at one of the branches before something opened up. It feels like stepping back into a comfortable pair of shoes being there and you eagerly begin your first task alongside another archivist, Vee. You handle each book carefully, wearing soft gloves to protect them as you appraise the material and chat with your new co-worker.

When Vee takes their lunch break, you decide to pop in your headphones to listen to some music while you work. Rihanna keeps you company as you take the next book which is much larger than the others and considerably older. Its cracked, maroon cover features some faded gold lettering in a language you don’t recognize. _German maybe?_ , you wonder, crinkling your nose. Your German is pretty limited, so you make due by copying the letters in your notebook as best you can. Perhaps someone else will be able to make sense of it. The metal latch refuses to budge at first, your gloved fingers skidding across it with each attempt.

“C’mon play nice,” you say and try to turn the knob again. 

With a little patience, it eventually pops open for you and you exhale in relief. Something crackles in your ear and you check the headphone cord to see if it might be loose or damaged. The sound stops after you jiggle the wire around a little and you shrug it off. You continue on with your inspection, finding a number of torture scenes not dissimilar to the propaganda that circulated about Vlad the Impaler in the 15th century. Even in grayscale, the gore depicted makes you feel a little queasy. 

You lean over to make a note about what’s inside, when Rihanna suddenly goes quiet. At first, you think you may have pulled the headphone’s plug loose from the jack, but you pick up your phone and find it still attached. The battery is dead.

“Really?” you sigh.

You know that thing had been fully charged when you came in. Removing the headphones, you toss it on your desk to deal with later, and continue looking through the book. In your notebook, you decide the title probably translates to _Ye Olde Book of Fucked Up Shit_ and set it aside for further inspection. Relegated to silence, you move onto the next book which is in a language that you understand and can easily take notes to get it into the system a little quicker. A strange urge makes you look over at the other book, but it’s still sitting where you left it, the cover closed and latched. You shake it off and get back to work. 

There’s a sudden draft of cold air that startles you. The room is temperature-controlled to protect the books and other delicate items that come through it. You glance behind you and confirm that the breeze didn’t come from a door. There aren’t windows in this section of the building. Nothing appears out of place, but you know you felt something.

It has been months since ghosts attempted to take over the city, and no one mentioned anything about the division being haunted. _Unless they don’t want you to know that_ , you think. A few people at your old branch brought up the idea of a special union meeting to demand employers disclose known hauntings the way that some states required real estate agents to tell buyers about deaths on a property. 

The sound of your name being called makes you shriek and jump out of your chair. But when you turn around, you see that Vee has returned from their break and looks pretty freaked out. Clutching your hand to your chest, you remind yourself to breathe and calm down.

“Sorry, you scared me,” you say.

“I guess so,” they answer. “Um, maybe you should take your lunch?”

You nod and leave your gloves at the table before grabbing your stuff. You turn to your colleague and ask them to have someone check out the creepy book, but leave out your weird experience. It could easily be nothing - too many ghosts and old fashioned torture porn on the brain - but it still leaves you unsettled. You leave the building to grab something from a food truck and eat it on the front steps. Instinctively, you reach for your phone, forgetting that it had gone dead, and it lights up like normal.

Your food sits heavily in your stomach all afternoon and you spend most of the day fighting off the urge to chuck the creepy book into the nearest recycling bin. By the time you get home that evening, you’re exhausted and wired at the same time. As you sit in the middle of your futon, journal to one side of you and laptop to the other, you try to sort everything out. What you find online is indicative of paranormal activity. There’s an updated edition of _Ghosts from Our Past_ that came out a few days earlier, but of course every copy at every NYPL branch is checked out with a hold list a mile long. If you’re lucky, you might get it by next year.

You decide to take a sleep aid before bed since you know your brain won’t shut up. Normally you don’t leave the TV on, but you need something to distract you before the pill kicks in. Reruns of _Steven Universe_ manage to do the trick. Just as you drift off to sleep, a floorboard creaks near the door and your eyes shoot open. Nothing is there. It could have been a passing neighbor, though everyone on your floor is usually quiet by that time of night. You settle back down and try to relax so your body won’t fight the mild sedative. 

At some point you had fallen asleep. Your dreams filled with visceral torture scenes. You feel yourself being chased and then trapped beneath something heavy. Your eyes open but you can’t move as though that weight is still on top of you, pressing down on each shoulder and your belly. You try to wake yourself, knowing that this is just sleep paralysis, but it doesn’t go away. In fact, it worsens and a glow fills the room that isn’t from your TV set. 

Blinking you suddenly see the face of one of the people in the dream glaring down at you, almost like a photo negative of the face. It growls your name and you scream, somehow throwing yourself out of bed. You hit the floor and pain shoots up from one knee where it connected with the edge of the futon.

“Get out! This is my home!” you shout at the glowing form in front of you. It stares at you for a moment and then it’s gone. 

All of the lights come on and you check every inch of your tiny apartment for that… thing. You notice a thick green slime covering the places where it had touched you and you all but rip your clothes off in disgust. _That was a ghost, that was a goddamn ghost_ , you tell yourself. You take a few moments to collect yourself. Whatever it is seems to be gone, but that doesn’t mean it won’t come back. The fact that it knows your name... you don’t know what it means. It can’t be good.

You jump when you hear a series of sharp bangs beneath you.

“SOME OF US ARE TRYING TO SLEEP!” follows it. Not a ghost, but your easily-agitated downstairs neighbor, Mrs. Erwin. 

You sigh and pull yourself up off the floor. “That’s it, I’m calling Patty.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still a T rating for this one, but with more flirting.

A few days and some frustrating attempts to have the book removed later, you turn up at Ghostbusters HQ. Patty is waiting for you downstairs while a blond, muscular model type is snoozing at his desk, chin resting on his hand. He’s even wearing a sleep mask and, for some reason, has glasses on over the mask. The glasses have no lenses in them.

“Kevin, c’mon I told you about napping at work,” she says, giving him a shake.

Kevin jolts awake. “I have to catch up on my rest, I’ve got that audition tomorrow,” he answers in a sleepy Australian accent as he removes the mask. “Oh, hi there.”

“Hey...”

You have so many questions.

 

“Can I help you?”

Patty takes you by the arm. “I got her Kevin, it’s fine. No more sleeping, okay?”

By the time you reach the room just past the reception area, Kevin is face down on the desk again. Patty offers you a seat and then calls the other Ghostbusters down through the intercom. Though you’re glad to be away from the apartment and work, your stomach is all knots and you fold your hands tightly in your lap.

“You doing okay?” she asks, taking the chair beside yours.

“I guess,” you say. “None of my higher-ups are taking my claims seriously, but the other librarians are just as freaked out by the book as I am.”

She nods and reaches over to place her hand on yours. “We’ll figure something out, don’t you worry.”

Thanks to the media coverage, you already recognize the rest of the team when they arrive. It’s still a little strange that they’re now sitting in front of you instead of being on a screen. They settle in with notebooks, and Abby places her phone in the middle of the table to record the conversation. She asks you start from the beginning and describe every event since you first encountered the book. While you talk, they take notes and toss around some science-heavy terminology that goes right over your head. There’s a sense of relief because someone is finally listening to you and not calling into question your judgement or accusing you of having an overactive imagination. Though Holtzmann seems to be more interested in staring at you like a complex math problem. 

You don’t exactly mind.

“I haven’t seen the ghost, but my apartment still feels… I don’t know, heavy?” you say towards the end. “And I can’t sleep through the night. I keep waking up and feeling like someone is watching me. I don’t know if that’s just me being paranoid because I don’t see any of that slimy stuff.”

“Ectoplasm,” Holtzmann adds.

“Do you think we could see the book for ourselves?” Erin asks. “If we bring it in, then maybe we could-”

“It hasn’t been officially put into the collection. Even then, I doubt I could get them to send it out of the building,” you explain. “And for this? Well, they probably think I’m off my rocker anyway.”

They consider this for a moment before Patty suggests coming in as patrons to view the collection. This requires the book to already be available for access, as well as scheduling a meeting time, but she gives you an idea.

“I might be able to have a mix-up with the book and bring that one out for your appointment instead. I am new, after all,” you say with a sly smile.

Abby claps her hands together. "Great!"

 

That evening, you return to your building with a brighter outlook on the whole ghost situation. At least now you had some kind of plan and professional help. You might lose your job in the process, but you don’t want to turn into Regan MacNeil either. 

Dressed in her favorite bejeweled leopard print kaftan and black velvet slippers, Mrs. Erwin is retrieving her mail in the front hall. She gives you her typical greeting - an intense side-eye and her overlined lips turned down in a grimace. You still don’t know why the woman dislikes you more than the rest of the tenants, but she’s had it out for you since you moved in. Right now, you aren’t in the mood to deal with her or her affected British accent and tacky fashion sense.

“Leaving your stereo and TV on is quite rude,” she says, literally looking down her nose at you. 

“What are you talking about? Everything was off when I left this morning.”

“I could hear them _all_ afternoon! If this continues, I shall alert the super.”

Rather than stand there and listen to her, you head upstairs. You don’t even _have_ a stereo. Dread creeps up your spine as you reach your floor. You can hear the sound of a TV and music blaring all the way down the hall. When you get inside, you find that the place is a wreck - papers and books strewn around the room, all of your electronics are on, and the kitchen cabinets stand wide open. You blink as you take in the scene.

Grabbing the bat you keep beneath your futon, you check your closets and the bathroom for signs of an intruder. For once in your life, you actually hope it’s a robber and not a malevolent spirit. You slip and nearly fall onto the bathroom floor. More ectoplasm.

_Shit._

You drop the bat, and then rush through the main room of the apartment to unplug everything in sight. Fighting a growing sense of fear, you throw some necessities into a bag. There’s no way you’re staying in this place tonight. You don't care where exactly, just as long as it's far away from your building.

The air shifts around you and all the hairs on the back of your neck stand up and your ears pop. There’s a sudden crack and your set of knives come flying at your head from their metal strip above the stove. Somehow you manage to duck out of the way and they land with a sickening thud into the wall instead of your face. You scramble to your feet, grab your bag, and get the fuck out of the apartment before anything else can try to murder you.

“What’s all that noise?” Mr. Nuñez asks, standing in the doorway of his apartment across the hall. His grey hair sticks up at odd angles; the commotion must have woken him.

“Just stay inside, I don’t want it after you.”

His eyes widen. “‘ _It_ ’?”

The entity rattles your door, all but tearing it from the hinges, and you take a huge step back. He slams his own door shut, the lock clicking a split second later, and you race down the hall to the stairway. You don’t dare look behind you. Even after you exit the building, you don’t stop running until you reach the nearest subway entrance. With shaking hands, you fish your cell out of your purse and find Patty’s number. Thankfully, it doesn’t go to voicemail.

“What’s up?”

“It… it attacked me,” you say, your voice quivering almost as hard as your hands. “I can’t stay there.”

“Okay, hold on, baby. We’ll come get you.”

You hole up at a nearby Starbucks while you wait for Patty. A group of students glance at your disheveled state as you sit near the window before going back to their textbooks. The tremors have subsided but your body is a giant raw nerve. You can’t help but check the time on your phone every five minutes. It feels like hours later when Patty and Holtzmann show up in their new work vehicle (Patty had mentioned it during your visit). The group collectively gasps when they see the Ghostbusters logo on the passenger door and the phones all come out.

Patty goes over to you while Holtzmann poses for a couple pictures with the students and baristas. “Let’s get you in the car,” she says before leading you to the car. “Holtzy, c’mon!”

Her partner waves to the group of adoring fans and then dashes over to the driver’s seat. They try getting Patty to come over for photos as well, but she’s more focused on you and waves back at them before getting into the backseat with you. You stare down at the hastily-packed bag and purse at your feet in a bit of a daze. Your life has gotten very weird, very fast. Even back when the outbreak of ghosts happened, you had somehow managed to avoid being terrorized by them. Weren’t they all supposed to be gone now?

“I’ll go up and check the place out,” Holtzmann says as she slides into the driver’s seat.

She whips the car around and heads back towards your building where she double parks it in front of a BMW. Panic grips your chest just being near the place. Before you get a chance to protest, she’s out of the car and has a proton pack strapped to her back. She heads across the street and grabs the door as someone you recognize from the top floor is leaving. Patty looks over at you and puts her arm around you, rubbing your shoulder like you’ve been out in the cold too long and need warming up.

“It’s okay, I’m gonna stay down here with you.”

Your eyes dart between Patty and the building. “What if it hurts her?”

“We’re professionals, baby,” she says confidently. 

She does her best to calm you down by changing the subject to books of the non-haunted variety. The two of you had originally met through the branch book club that you used to run - all about historical nonfiction and biographies. History is a soft spot for you, and the club had introduced you to patrons with the same interest. Patty had shown up at the second meeting and remained a regular attendee for years. Not long after, you started meeting up with her outside of work and struck up a friendship.

“That club won’t be the same without you in charge,” she says. “Who’d they pick as your replacement?”

“Do you remember the guy covered for me sometimes? Older? Likes a sweater vest and tie?”

Her face fell. “Oh no, not Dave. I fell asleep twice the last time he ran the meeting!”

You laugh. “Unfortunately he’s the only one who could. I tried to get Felicia but she’s doing a tech class at the same time.”

Holtzmann returns in the middle of your conversation and settles sideways in her seat. “So uh, good-slash-bad news. Everything seems quiet up there, buuuut…”

“That means it’s still out there somewhere. Looking for me.”

She taps her nose, pointing at you. “Point to the lovely lady in the back seat.”

“How’d you get in anyway?” you ask.

She produces a cloth bag about the size of an eyeglass case from her jacket. “Lock pick kit. Never leave home without it.”

Patty gives you a sympathetic look as you slump against the seat with a heavy sigh. “Don’t you worry, we can handle this,” she says. 

You really want to believe her.

 

There’s a spare room waiting for you on the top floor of the firehouse. It isn’t so much a bedroom, as it is a storage room that they could fit an air mattress into. For the time being, the room is your sanctuary; a sanctuary that also houses extra cleaning supplies and a few Costco-sized bags of baking soda, but it’s better than the alternative. Patty makes you some tea.

“That thing already found me at home,” you say after a long period of staring at the mug. “It’s going to follow me here.”

“No need to worry,” Holtzmann interjects and then introduces you to her specialized security system with the smile of a proud parent on her face. “Keeps ghosts out… except the ones we trap, but they go into a containment vault. I wouldn’t recommend being on the second floor for very long if you want to keep your hair.”

You look to Patty, concerned for everyone’s wellbeing as well as your own.

“Don’t ask,” she says, holding a hand up and shaking her head.

* * *

A nightmare about being trapped in your apartment with the ghost wakes you around five in the morning. You compose yourself and try to go back to sleep, but your brain just won’t cooperate.  
Sighing, you decide just to get up for the day and leave a message on the work line about being too sick to come in. You move quietly through the hall, making a quick stop in the bathroom closest to you before you go down one floor to the kitchen.

To your surprise, you aren’t the only one there. Holtzmann is in the process of constructing a sandwich with what appears to be the entire contents of the fridge. She is also dancing back and forth between it and the kitchen island, her large, vintage-style headphones muffling the music she’s listening to. Holtzmann jumps and lets out a yelp when she sees you. 

“Sorry, thought you were that Class 3,” she says.

“That what?”

She shakes her head. “Nevermind,” she answers, and gestures to the stack of food on her plate. “Want in?”

“Think I’ll try to find some coffee. Thanks though.”

She winks at you, and then flattens the sandwich down to a more manageable size, its contents squishing out onto the plate and counter top. Maybe it’s your sleep-deprived state, but there’s something weirdly attractive about watching her eat. _Don’t be a creep_ , you tell yourself and open the nearest cabinet.

“Lef’side, top shelf,” she said, wiping her mouth.

“Thanks.”

You toss out the old filter, replace it with a new one along with some coffee. While it gurgles to life, you snag a couple pieces of bread that have managed to escape Holtzmann’s sandwich pile and fix yourself some toast. She crosses over to the counter and hoists herself onto it, the plate at her side. You notice that the headphones are now hooked around her neck and playing a tinny version of the _Purple Rain_ soundtrack. They look odd against her red smoking jacket, overalls and “One of the Boys” top (not that those come even close to matching). Somehow it all works on her, reminding you a little of the art student you dated back in college.

“Suuure you don’t want any?” she asks with a smirk that makes you wonder just what exactly she’s offering.

“Nah, I’m good with my toast.”

She passes you one of the mugs from the rack above the sink. It features a drawing of a very well endowed ghost with red lips on it and you raise an eyebrow. “We let Kevin design the mugs. It keeps him amused.”

“Oh.”

You pour in some coffee with sugar and then start on your toast. Holtzmann goes back to her sandwich, pausing every so often to ask you about yourself. Part of you wants to squirm in place because you aren’t used to answering questions this early in the morning. Some of them border on potential security questions that websites use, such as “What was the name of your favorite childhood pet?” and “What was your high school mascot?”. In a very direct, albeit odd, way, Holtzmann is getting to know you better. You wonder if this is how she acts on dates. 

_Does she go on dates? Or is she in the lab the whole time?_

_Creep Alert. Knock it off._

The topic shifts to how you know Patty and your work at NYPL. She doesn’t go with the typical comments about libraries becoming obsolete because of Google. It’s… nice. Your last attempt at dating had resulted in you giving a very passionate speech about the increasing necessity of libraries as information points as well as preservation and places of cultural exchange. Maybe you are a little defensive about your job.

“I think I still have some books out from when I was a kid,” she says. “Can you waive that or something?”

You smile. “Sorry, not my department. I’ll see what I can do though.”

“Excellent.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still a T for this one. CW for choking and more canon-typical violence.

Thanks to some help from a colleague, you’re able to get a rough translation of the book and some photos. The book details the sadistic exploits of a wealthy nobleman by the name Ulrich that only has two remaining printings - one of which belongs to the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek. For some reason, your friend had been able to handle it without incident, but she reported feeling "a creepy vibe" being near it. You didn't tell her what has been going on.

Abby connects your phone to a projector and flicks it on so everyone can see the pictures. Even though it's a photo of the book, you still get chills when you look at it and hang back a little. The drawing of Ulrich matches up with the man in your dreams and the spectral version that had appeared in your apartment. You repeat your colleague’s findings - the killing and torture of enemies or just anyone who spoke out against him, his own servants, and even his wives. Ulrich gave Henry VIII a run for his money in the wife murdering department.

“Seems like a great guy,” Holtzmann comments. “Fun at parties.”

“So why is he after me?”

She looks over at you, shrugging. “Likes a pretty face?”

She gives you a little wink and heat surges in your cheeks. Erin and Abby bounce ideas off each other as they stare up at the photos. Patty snags a laptop from the table you're standing beside and heads into research mode. 

“Not to freak you out more, but you should check this out,” she says, and turns the laptop toward you. The others gather around to see what Patty has found. 

There's a painting of a very young woman - a child by today’s standards - stares back at you. Patty taps on the next image in the slide show. The two could have been sisters. Your stomach falls as she continues to move through the paintings. 

“He thinks I look like them,” you say, folding your arms over your chest protectively. 

Abby looks between you and the screen. “No, you’ve got a totally different shade and you don’t look like you’re twelve… okay, yeah, you do kinda look like them,” she says with an apologetic expression. “If we can get our hands on the book, we can lure him and then trap him for good.”

“I’m going to have to be bait, aren’t I?”

“Well… yes, but we’re going to be there and make sure nothing happens to you. Right, Patty?”

Patty puts her arm around you and gives you a squeeze. “That’s right.”

“We won’t actually put you on a hook,” Holtzmann adds, as if it were a completely real possibility. “Though I am working on something like that.”

“Not helping right now, Holtzy” Patty says flatly. 

Your eyes go back to the images of Ulrich’s wives. All of them killed because they had married a real life Bluebeard. From the text, you know he had died of old age while most of his wives had barely made it into their twenties. Anger boils up inside of you.

“I’m in. Fuck this guy.”

This earns you high fives from the team. Together, you devise a plan to lure Ulrich without incident and then keep him locked away for good. Holtzmann sidles up to you, her hip pressing just enough against yours that you stop worrying about Ulrich for a moment.

* * *

_I am definitely getting fired_ , you think as you remove the book from its shelf. Figuring out a good excuse as to why you’re on camera removing a book from the collection without permission is something you decide to tackle after the whole homicidal ghost thing. Almost everyone is gone for the day since it’s Friday, but you had made up an excuse about catching up on some work that your boss, Charles, seemed to buy.

Everything is going fine until you reach the door that leads out of the department and hear a voice a few doors down.

“Where are you going with my book?”

You stop, every cell in your body urging you not to turn around and just keep moving, but you know what you have to do. Behind you is Charles, but it’s not Charles. His features have sharpened to look more like Ulrich’s, and a thick German accent layers with his natural speaking voice. 

“I’m stopping you once and for all.”

His laughter is low and threatening, and you’re suddenly off your feet and swept backwards against the wall. Your head connects sharply with the metal, leaving you dizzy. The book drops from your hands but you remained pinned in place, feet dangling beneath you. It’s the same pressure that you had felt in your apartment the first night. With a twist of Charles’ hand, your airway constricts and you claw uselessly at the invisible limb. 

“Oh, you will not die yet,” he tells you as your face grows tight from the lack of circulation. “It has been far too long, and I want to see you suffer first.”

Your voice comes out in a harsh whisper and you plead with Charles to fight off Ulrich. The laughing only darkens, and he throws you against a display on the other side of the corridor. Above the sound of shattered glass and books toppling to the ground, you hear someone else shouting for you from further away. Both you and Ulrich look up and see Holtzmann with her team close behind her, already armed. 

A burst of energy sends them falling backward, toppling over each other. It gives him enough time to physically drag you by the ankle through the pile of debris. The glass cuts your skin and you cry out in pain as a piece digs into your arm. You kick against his hold but he’s too strong for you to even shake the arm of his unwilling host. 

“Hey ugly, lady’s with me!” Holtzmann shouts, and kicks something at him that lands squarely between his feet and then explodes in a pinkish-red light a second later. 

Shielding your eyes with one arm, you feel his grasp loosen and then the body of your boss falls on the ground beside you. He comes to just in time to see Ulrich’s spectral be sucked into a trap. It snaps closed automatically, some smoke billowing out from the edges of the cylinder. Holtzmann rushes over and kneels down  
beside you, checking you over. 

“Are you okay?” she asks, a little out of breath. “You’re bleeding.”

You wince, showing her the underside of your arm where it’s injured from the glass. “Someone should check on him,” you say and nod to your boss. Her attention is focused on you.

“What just happened? What was that?” Charles asks, disoriented. Abby lends a hand in getting him upright and tries to explain in somewhat complex terms what he had just experienced. Patty has to translate.

Ambulances and police arrive shortly thereafter, and both of you are checked out by the EMTs. You notice Holtzmann glancing over at you while they speak with the police. This time when your stomach goes all quivery, it isn’t out of mortal terror. You bite back a grin.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the ghost neutralized, there's only one thing left to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took longer than expected, and with NaNo starting, I hadn't had much time to work on it. I figured today would be a good day to post some queer lady smut.
> 
> For more info about safer sex and barriers, check out [Scarleteen.](http://www.scarleteen.com/article/bodies/all_the_barriers_all_the_time)

It's around midnight when you arrive back at the firehouse. Your body is on autopilot at this point, and you head to the spare room to pack up your things. You're exhausted, but relieved. It's finally over and, aside from the bandaged wound on your arm and some bruises, you're in one piece. How you plan on going back to work on Monday, you aren't quite sure yet. 

While you're putting your things back into the bag, you hear a knock at the door. You look up to see Patty and smile. "I don't even know how to thank you for this," you say, your voice trembling a little.

"All part of the job, baby." She walks over and hugs you. “I’m just happy you’re okay.”

"Hopefully we won't have to meet up again like this," you tell her, chuckling as you step back. "Maybe just some drinks. No homicidal ghosts."

"You're on. Look, I've got some work to do downstairs, but I'll see if Holtzy can give you a ride home."

The little wink she gives you makes you wonder if she knows something you don't. Before you get a chance to ask, she's gone. A few moments later, Holtzmann is there with a set of keys in her hand.

Much to your surprise, she drives you home on a motorcycle instead of the more practical car. If it hadn't been for the whole ghost incident, Holtzmann's driving would have been one of the more terrifying events of your life. Though it does give you an excuse to hang on a little tighter, so you don’t mind _too_ much.

At your building, you ask her to follow you up - just in case. She heads up to your floor, keeping a little closer than you'd expect. Your apartment is still the same disaster area that you had left it in. _Too bad the ghost hadn't been a neat freak in his former life_ , you think as you set your keys down on the kitchen counter.

“I’ll just clean it up tomorrow,” you sigh. “Or just move.”

“Moving might be easier,” Holtzmann suggests. 

Part of you still feels on edge, waiting for something to jump out at you or be thrown at you. The knives stuck in the wall serve as another grim reminder of what happened. You walk over and return them to their original spot. Holtzmann pitches in with the rest of the cleanup, helping you straighten up the main room enough to be able to move around in. 

Still in her jumpsuit, she opts to roll down the top half of it and tie it around her waist. To your surprise, she's wearing a dark blue “Female Body Inspector” shirt. From the looks of it, she's cut up a larger t-shirt and fashioned it into a sleeveless crop top. You feel guilty when you catch yourself staring at the exposed skin longer than necessary. Only a little bit guilty.

"Thanks again for all your help," you say.

"Just don't let anyone at work know I actually cleaned up something. Wouldn't want them getting the wrong idea."

A beat passes and you find yourself staring at the way her lips curve into a grin. You're very aware of the distance between the two of you even with the doorframe separating you two. Making the first move has never been your thing, but you reconsider it. 

Holtzmann beats you to it by taking that half step between your bodies and kissing you. You gasp against her mouth out of surprise, but quickly melt into it. Damn, it's been too long since anyone has kissed you - let alone kissed you so hard that it momentarily makes you forget your name and where you are. 

"Well, I guess I wasn't wrong about that," you tell her, laughing a little breathlessly.

She ducks her head and bites her lip. "I'm sorry, I should have asked first."

"I appreciate that," you say and move in for a quick peck. "But I'm very, very okay with this."

She comes back inside, kicking the door shut behind her and you're up against it a split second later. The suddenness of it makes you laugh, but then her mouth is on yours again and you quiet down. Her hands frame your face as she kisses you, and you sigh, enjoying the slight possessive sensation. Your hands come to rest on her waist, finding that bit of bare skin that you have been staring at for the past hour or so. It's wonderfully soft and warm and you can't stop running your fingers over it. She jerks a little, pulling away from you.

"Ticklish?" you ask.

She scrunches up her face for a second. "Little bit."

There's a pretty red blush in her cheeks and her lips nearly match it, swollen from kissing you. The realization makes your head swim, and you want to see how much you can make her blush. Both of you walk over to the futon and lay down, still kissing and running your hands over each other's bodies. You nip at her bottom lip and she groans, rolling her hips against yours. Grinning, you repeat the action. In turn, she presses her lips along your jawline until she finds that one spot that makes you react the same way. 

Slipping her hand beneath the hem of your shirt, she whispers against your ear, "This okay?"

"Uh huh," you reply and turn your head to steal a kiss. "I'll let you know what isn't."

She smiles. "Okay."

She moves up higher trailing along your neck with her mouth and tongue. The two of you move so that she's laying on top of you, one leg between yours. She gives your breast a light squeeze through the material of your bra. _This definitely needs to go_ , you think and sit up just enough to remove it along with your shirt. Holtzmann returns to what she was doing; the faint roughness of her fingerless gloves against your bare skin causes you to shiver. You might have been fixating on those as well.

Her lips leave little pecks, moving downward until she reaches your breasts. She takes her time in lavishing attention upon them. You want to keep watching the way her pink lips close around your nipple, but it feels too good that you arch up into the warmth of her mouth and whimper. One hand comes up to bury itself in her mess of blonde curls.

Your clit throbs, almost as strong as your pulse, and the sensation grows stronger with each flick of her tongue and graze of her teeth. Her thigh is just far enough from the juncture of your legs that you can't relieve some of that pressure. You reach down with both hands and pull her in closer which makes her gasp in surprise.

"Well okay then," she laughs. 

Holtzmann shifts her leg up so that it's exactly where you need it, and you begin to grind against her thigh. The sensation isn't enough to get you off - though you feel like you're turned on enough that you might - but it's better than nothing at the moment. She moves over to the other tit, her hand coming up to massage its twin. Heat floods your veins as she continues, your body writhing beneath her touch. 

She raises her head abruptly, and then herself up on one elbow to look at you. "Okay before we get more naked, do you have any gloves or anything like that?" she asks, her fingers tracing little patterns over your sternum. 

You have to take a moment to collect your thoughts before you can answer her. "Yeah, um..."

You sit up, regretfully having to move away from her to look for the little basket where you keep your safer sex kit. It's a makeup bag with contraceptives, barriers, spare lube, and just about anything a person could need to get busy. You thankfully have nitrile gloves left for both of you, and you toss them onto the bed.

"Always come prepared," you joke.

She grins and then kisses you. "I knew I liked you for a reason."

"Not just because I might be able to waive your library fines?"

"Well, besides that."

You take advantage of her newly seated position on the edge of the mattress, and straddle her lap. She slides her hands up over your thighs and rests them on your hips.

"Oh, I like this," she purrs up at you.

"This should come off," you tell her, tugging at the hem of her top.

She lets you slip it off over her head, though she has to get the sports bra that's beneath it. You take a moment to get a good look at her. Her breasts are a little fuller than you expected and your hands can't help but touch them. She wraps her arms around your waist, smoothing over the bare skin of your back before they slide down to cup your ass.

"Might need to stand up again so I can get these off," she says and tugs a little at your jeans. 

You both strip off the remaining clothes and then return to the mattress, the only thing between you being your underwear. She wears that style that looks more like boxers which fits exactly with what you thought she might wear. Yours are much simpler and verging into the "not cute" category, but the way she looks at you makes you think it doesn't matter. Running her fingers through your hair, she brings your mouth back down to hers.

The swells of her breasts fit nicely into your hands. She sighs against your lips as you brush a thumb against one nipple. It doesn't take long for you to figure out how she likes to be touched - a little softer than what you like, more like a tease. She responds in kind and finds the places on your body that make you squirm in her lap. Her hand slips between your legs, stroking your clit through the soaked fabric there and you inhale sharply. 

"One sec," she tells you.

Though it takes little time for her to get off her fingerless gloves so that she can put the black nitrile pair on, you still miss the feeling of her. Now covered, she gets her hand beneath the fabric and easily finds your aching clit with one finger. Any other time, you might ask for a bit of lube, but you can feel just how wet you are. She grins against your mouth as she works you with her hand. Each pass sends sparks through your body and you're panting, fingers digging into her skin. You need more, as much as she's willing to give.

Holtzmann slips one finger inside your cunt, soon followed by a second, and you moan loudly. She swears under her breath when you clench up around her. You look at each other, both breathing heavily, and you kiss her. Her fingers curl up against the your g-spot, bringing out a pleasurable shudder in you. Panting, you roll your hips to meet each of her strokes. 

With your knees threatening to give out on you at any second, you adjust your positions on the bed. Holtzmann curls up behind you, one arm draped over your waist so she can get her hand between your legs. This time, she eases three fingers into your slick cunt and you nearly come up off the mattress. Your mouths meet again, her tongue slipping past your lips as she fucks you.

Though you’re used to getting off with your trusty Magic Wand, you find yourself already teetering on the edge of an orgasm. Her body is pressed against you so that you feel every inch of her. When her mouth closes over that little sensitive spot on your throat, pleasure curls through you.

“ _Fuck,_ ” you whimper.

She grins against your neck before she does it a second time. You’re tense, ready to snap at any moment. You tremble in her arms. With just another thrust of her fingers, you cry out as your climax overtakes you. The sound of your breath is harsh to your ears as the flood of warmth follows, filling you with a much-needed sense of release.

Instead of laying there to enjoy it a little longer, you reach for the other pair of gloves. Holtzmann stops you, suggesting another idea and then climbs back on top of you. You smile, wondering just what she’s going to do next. The smirk on her face promises that it will be good. 

She moves around so that she's straddling your bent leg, and you can feel just how wet she is. Because of you. The thought sends a renewed spike of arousal through you. Though she's in a more dominant position, you can sense that vulnerability of being so close to the edge. She rolls her hips, grinding on your upper thigh. There isn't anything slow about this, she's focused and a sheen of sweat breaks out at her hairline with the effort. Sitting up a little, you press a line of kisses to her throat and nip gently at her earlobe. 

Her mouth drops open and her body goes still, one hand gripping you tightly as she shudders through her orgasm. She doesn’t shout when it hits her, instead her breath comes out in a series of shallow breaths. For a moment you just watch her in awe. She smiles and collapses against you, both of you falling back onto the futon with an exhausted huff.

Right on schedule, Mrs. Erwin bangs her broom against the ceiling beneath you. You look over at Holtzmann and both of you start laughing. She reaches over and strokes your hair out of your eyes.

“I’m guessing that’s not another ghost,” she says, still somewhat out of breath.

“You all don’t take care of crappy neighbors, do you?”

She shakes her head. “Not unless they’re dead.”

The two of you take a second to get cleaned up before settling back into bed. She pulls you closer and you rest your head on her shoulder. It’s comfortable. The nerves you had once felt all but gone now, and you smile as she slots your fingers together.

“I’ll get out of your hair in a second,” she says against the top of your head.

“No, you can stay,” you answer and then look up at her. “I mean, if you want to.”

She grins. “That’s good, this thing is surprisingly comfy. For a futon.”

* * *

The following morning, you walk her out of the building, much to the scandal of your downstairs neighbor. Holtzmann pulls you into a kiss that makes your head spin (not literally). Somehow, she still manages to make you blush even after the night you spent together.

“Morning, ladies!” Patty says cheerfully.

You look over and see her walking up dressed in skinny jeans and a bright, floral patterned varsity jacket over a black tank top. Holtzmann seems unfazed, her arm still wrapped around your waist as she turns to greet Patty. She gives the two of you the once-over with a knowing look on her face.

Holtzmann kisses your cheek before making her exit. Your face still feels hot and Patty just nudges your arm. “C’mon lovebird, let’s get some coffee.”

By the time you reach the café a few blocks over and find a seat, there’s a text waiting for you from Holtzmann:

_Liked waking up next to you._

Biting your lip, you reply back: 

_Me too._


End file.
